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Betrayal at Blackcrest
Jennifer Wilde writing as Beatrice Parker
1
I was lost. There was no denying it now. I had no earthly idea where I was. There had been a sign some miles back, but the rain had been falling so violently that I had been unable to read it properly. I was not really alarmed, not yet. I felt sure that this twisting back road would eventually take me to Hawkestown. The place had an improbable name, but the crumpled road map at my side assured me that it existed.
The rain fell in torrents, sweeping with small waves over the road ahead and splattering noisily over the windshield. I drove slowly. The tires slid over the wet pavement with a swishing sound, and the headlights barely penetrated the swirling sheets of rain. It seemed impossible that only a few hours ago I had been in London, closing up the flat in Chelsea and checking to see that the windows were locked and the gas properly shut off.
It was nice to be away for a while, even if I didn’t know what to expect when I reached Hawkestown. Getting away from the noise and furor of London for a week or so would do wonders for my morale. Perhaps when I returned my agent would have news of some wonderful job. That was just wishful thinking, I told myself, but I did not intend to worry. For at least a week I was going to devote myself to fun and relaxation. Perhaps Delia’s new husband had a friend—male, unattached, and eager to meet a girl like me.
I pushed these thoughts out of my mind and concentrated on my driving. The inside of the car smelled of mothballs and dust. It rattled and chugged, but I had complete confidence in its ability to carry me safely to any given destination. I was not so sure about this particular destination. Had I made the right turnoff when I left the highway this afternoon? These country road markers were frightfully vague.
I had not passed a car in the last half-hour. For all purposes, the road belonged to me. It was narrow and in poor repair. Dark black trees grew close on either side, and their branches reached down like fingers to scratch the roof of the car. It was like driving through some ghostly tunnel. The clock on the dashboard informed me that it was after seven. It might be hours before I reached the house. I had no idea what Delia would think of my barging in on her in the middle of the night. Whatever her reactions, I could be sure they would be fraught with drama and completely typical.
I had a few things to say to Delia. None of them were flattering. I considered her neglect criminal. Even if she had given up a not quite glorious career to marry some country gentleman, that was no reason for not writing her only surviving relative. I had received no word from her since the enthusiastic and expensive telegram she had sent the day she arrived in Hawkestown.
That had been over a month ago. Since then there had not been even so much as a postcard. The promising young actress Delia Lane might now be the respectable Delia Hawke, chatelaine of a swell country estate and ever so elegant, but she need not think she could snub me. And if her mysterious new husband didn’t approve of my unexpected visit, he could just lump it.
I intended to see Delia, and I intended to shake her by the shoulders. After that, of course, I would settle down and listen to all the delicious details of her new life. I could hardly wait to hear all about it. Knowing Delia, I was certain she had already managed to set the local gentry on their ears.
I swerved to avoid a rut in the road. The tires slid alarmingly. I clenched the steering wheel tightly and held my breath. The car righted itself and moved on down the road. The rain showed no signs of slacking. I would arrive at Blackcrest looking like a drowned sparrow. That would delight Delia, who always liked to have the upper hand. I would be in no state to meet the much discussed Derek Hawke. I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of my sudden trip.
I should have telephoned long distance to announce my arrival, but I had had no idea where to call. Delia had mentioned the house, Blackcrest, and had babbled merrily about its dark and bloody history, but I did not know where it was. I presumed it was somewhere near Hawkestown. For all I knew, Blackcrest might not even have telephones. From the way Delia described it, I would be surprised if it was even wired for electricity. I refused to speculate on the plumbing.
I knew so little about any of it. Delia, who was always so open and frank about all her affairs, had been deliberately evasive about everything concerning Mr. Derek Hawke. In the past, I had always met all her boyfriends, and she had been eager for my approval of them. Derek Hawke remained a man of mystery, although she kept promising to bring him to the flat to meet me. When she quit the show, drew her savings out of the bank, and left for Hawkestown, I had been quite dazed.
I could not believe that she was leaving. She had kissed me gaily on the cheek and assured me that everything was marvelous and we would see each other soon. Then she had gone, and the shabby little flat had seemed squalid and unbearable. We had shared it for years, ever since we had arrived in London, two orphaned teen-agers determined to find fame and fortune in the big city. Both assets had been highly elusive during the ensuing years.
Many people in our profession thought Delia and I were sisters. We were, in fact, first cousins, and Delia had lived with my family in Dorset ever since her own parents were killed in an automobile accident. We grew up together, inseparable companions, and when my own parents died, barely a month apart, Delia and I were left alone in the world. We spent little time grieving. We shook the dust of Dorset from our heels and left almost immediately for London.
We had many jobs, mostly menial, before either of us got a toehold in the theater. Delia landed in a revue and I finally got a series of walk-on parts with a repertory company. Delia soon soared with her raffish charm and incredible vivacity, and she had had steady if unspectacular employment ever since. My own climb had been more gradual and far less remunerative. Few people in England would recognize the name Deborah Lane, while almost everyone who attended music halls would remember Delia, though few could say what she had last appeared in.
When Delia left London I had been working as a guide in a museum, a “temporary” thing until my agent could find something more suitable. After a week, the museum job evaporated, too, and I had been living ever since on funds nervously withdrawn from my savings account. Deborah Lane had reached another of the all too frequent crossroads of her career and had decided to do something impulsive.
I had phoned my agent, closed the flat, taken my ancient car out of the garage, and headed for Hawkestown. Now, on this rainswept road, it seemed like sheer folly. Delia must have had her reasons for not writing, and I must have been out of my mind to have decided to call on her without the least warning. She would have every right to be furious. She might not even be home. She and her husband might still be on their honeymoon. I began to be plagued with doubts as the car hit a particularly nasty rut and skidded across the road.
The wheel seemed to jump out of my hand. The car shook and bounced viciously. I seized the wheel and managed to keep from going completely off the road. The car seemed to make a series of froglike leaps before lurching to a halt. The motor spluttered and the car sagged miserably in the rear. My heart sank as I realized what had happened. A tire had blown out. I was stranded in the middle of nowhere with a flat tire, in the midst of a downpour that would probably make history for its ferocity.
It was typical of my luck, I thought, and just what I needed to make the whole affair a total disaster.
I felt like bursting into tears. Instead, I let loose a series of highly descriptive words that were not ordinarily a part of my vocabulary. That relieved me somewhat
, but the rain still poured on the roof of the car and I was nowhere nearer a solution to my dilemma.
I had a spare tire in the trunk and all the tools necessary to put it on. However, I was wearing my best white heels and a dress of white muslin printed with tiny pink and green flowers, my best, and I would starve to death before getting out in the rain thus attired. My luggage was in the trunk, too, so there could be no quick change in the front seat. I sat huddled over the steering wheel, listening to the rain and watching the minute hand of the clock slowly traverse the circle.
It was only a few minutes before the car passed, although it seemed like hours. It zoomed past, braked, then slowly reversed until it was directly in front of my own. I turned on my headlights in order to see better. The car was a jazzy red sports coupé, and the man climbing out of it was very tall, wearing a slick yellow mackintosh. I rolled down my window as he ambled over to the side of my car, for all the world as if this were a summer day without the least suggestion of rain.
“Trouble?” he inquired.
“Not a bit,” I replied gaily. “I’m just admiring the scenery.”
He missed the sarcasm. He pressed his brows together and looked at me as though I’d taken leave of my senses. The rain poured down on him. His hair fell in drenched dark curls over his forehead, and water ran in rivulets off his mackintosh. He seemed oblivious to it.
“I have a flat tire,” I explained, somewhat impatiently.
“Oh?” He arched a brow.
“Jolly weather for it, isn’t it?”
He seemed totally bewildered.
“You see,” I said, “this dress cost a small fortune. I’m afraid I couldn’t afford to ruin it. Consequently …”
“I’ll change your tire for you,” he said.
“You really are an angel,” I replied, “but I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
I waited, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. He was dreadfully slow in replying.
“Of course I will,” he finally said. “Glad to be of assistance.”
“My faith in mankind is restored,” I said. “Here are the keys. If you will open the trunk, you’ll find a somewhat bedraggled maroon suitcase. When you unfasten it, you’ll find a long blue coat piled on top of some beige underwear. Ignore the underwear, but bring me the coat. I’ll have to get out of the car while you’re working.”
“Good thinking,” he said.
He brought me the coat promptly. I wrapped it around me and got out of the car. The shoes were ruined immediately, for I stepped into three inches of mud on the side of the road and almost lost my balance. My hair was drenched and hung in wet auburn clusters about my head. I huddled in the coat and shouted appropriate comments as the man in the yellow mackintosh jacked up the rear end of the car and removed the flat tire. He had pulled a flashlight out of his pocket and given it to me, directing me to hold it over the rear fender.
The light danced unsteadily over the area where he was working. The rain was falling so furiously that I could not hold it level. I dwelt on the ruined shoes, cursing myself for not leaving London in a sweater and a pair of slacks. Only an idiot would start off for a long drive in her best finery. It was just such thoughtlessness that made life so hazardous for a woman on her own.
The rain did not seem to bother the man. He rolled the spare into place and hoisted it up to fit on the metal rim. I marveled audibly at his agility and strength. He yelled back for me to keep the light away from the treetops and direct it on the car.
In a matter of minutes the job was done. He put the flat tire into the trunk and tossed the jack and wrench in after it. He slammed the lid down and stepped back. At that moment, ironically, the rain stopped. It ceased abruptly and completely. The sudden silence after the monotonous pounding was slightly unnerving. I stared at my savior.
“How’s that for timing?” I remarked.
“Perfect,” he replied.
He grinned. I was happy to see that he could take it all with some humor. It would have been maddening otherwise.
“Here are your keys,” he said, handing them to me.
I returned his flashlight and smiled sincerely.
“I owe you quite a lot of thanks,” I said soberly. “I really don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”
“Ruined the dress, probably,” he replied.
“Not on your life,” I promised.
“Is everything all right now?” he asked. “Sure this thing will run properly?” He cast a disparaging glance at my battered old car.
“It may not look like much,” I told him, “but it’s a gem. I’ve depended on it for five years, and it’s never let me down. Of course, the tires are another story.…”
“You’d better get in,” he said. “It’s quite cold, and you’re wet. I would hate for you to catch cold.”
I climbed back into the car and turned on the interior light in order to see better. The stranger in the mackintosh came over to the window and leaned his arms on the edge of it, his head level with mine. He smiled, quite amiable, and for the first time I realized what a vulnerable position I was in. This was an isolated spot, and there was no one else around. The man was a complete stranger.…
I relaxed. His dark brown eyes were very friendly, and I found it unthinkable that he could have ulterior motives. If he had been contemplating rape, I reasoned, he would never have changed my tire.
“Tell me,” I said, “is there really a place called Hawkestown?”
“Without a doubt,” he replied. “It’s about two miles on down this road. You couldn’t possibly miss it.”
“I’m relieved,” I said, wiping a damp lock from my temple. “I was beginning to think it was legendary—one of those places that appear only once every hundred years or so.”
“It’s real, all right,” he said, “though few people have ever heard of it.”
“I must admit I hadn’t, until a relative of mine moved there. I am on my way to visit her now.”
He was staring at me intently. His eyes were not merely looking at me, they were studying my features. I drew myself up, not at all sure that I liked this intense examination. The man noticed my concern, and he grinned.
“I don’t suppose …” he began. “No, it couldn’t be.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re not by any chance Deborah Lane?”
“How on earth did you know?” I asked, startled.
“I’ve seen you on the screen.”
His voice was low and hesitant, and I shook my head in disbelief. I could not believe that it was actually happening. After all this time, someone had actually recognized me. I felt like the celebrity I most assuredly was not. The stranger looked as though he were about to ask for my autograph. That would have been entirely too much for one night.
“I didn’t know anyone actually saw that movie,” I said.
“The Sergeant’s Secretary? I saw it in Hawkestown. I never miss a J. Arthur Rank film. I don’t know what to say. This is the first time I have ever met a movie star.”
“Hardly that,” I retorted. “It was my first and last film, and I had a very small part.”
“It played in Hawkestown just a month ago. I saw it twice.”
“They’ve released it in the provinces? I thought they were saving it to drop over enemy territory during the next war. The critics called it a ‘Rank insult,’ and that’s the kindest thing they said about it.”
“I enjoyed it,” he protested.
“So did six other people,” I replied blithely.
“How long will you be in Hawkestown?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly.
“Why—I have no idea,” I stammered. “Why?”
“Well, I did go to a lot of trouble to change your tire. I feel I should have some kind of reward, don’t you? How about having dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“I don’t even know your name,” I said.
“Alex Tanner,” he replied, “short for Alexander.”
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The name was vaguely familiar. I felt I should recognize it, but my memory drew a total blank. Mr. Tanner was strongly attractive with his crooked nose and large mouth and those magnetic brown eyes, although he could by no means be called handsome. The prospect of having dinner with him was thoroughly pleasant.
“Aren’t you rushing things a bit, Mr. Tanner?” I asked.
“Not at all. I merely want to tell all my friends I’ve had dinner with a film star. It’ll give me ever so much status in Hawkestown. You can’t refuse, you know. I did fix your flat.…”
“I’m not at all sure I can make it,” I said.
“Sure you can. There’s not that much to do in Hawkestown.”
“My cousin may have plans.…”
Alex Tanner shrugged his shoulders. He twisted his large mouth into a most fascinating grin, and I knew it was hopeless. I had never been able to resist boyish charm combined with rugged masculinity, and Alex Tanner possessed both characteristics in abundance.
“Look,” he said, “you can’t disappoint a fan.”
“Well—” I deliberated.
“I’ll be at the Sable tomorrow night at eight. It’s the only restaurant in Hawkestown. I’ll be sitting at a table for two, waiting, and I’ll expect you to be there on the dot.”
“You take a lot for granted,” I said.
He nodded in agreement and flashed that grin again. I turned the key in the ignition and gunned the motor. He told me that he would follow me to Hawkestown to see that I had no more trouble, and then he got into his own car and pulled up so that I could pass. He raised his arm in a little salute as I pulled around him.
The road ahead was like a dark black ribbon, gleaming with wet. I drove faster now, and in my rear-view mirror I could see his headlights close behind. I felt safe and secure, and there was a warm glow that I had not felt in too long a time. I drove into the outskirts of Hawkestown and slowed. Alex Tanner zoomed past me, the jazzy red sports coupé speeding on down the road at a frightful speed. I smiled to myself. I had almost forgotten about Delia and her mysterious new husband.
Betrayal at Blackcrest Page 1